For my Floss.
1. I slice my finger open, the moment marked as I speak with one of my sisters on the phone. I have reached my hand into sudsy water, and there was a knife.
“Oh my God!” I say, my dishwater turning pink.
“Wuddja do?” she says. She is one of my four older siblings, and I am the youngest. What I did means different things to both of us.
My fingerprint once again altered, I look into the wound and see the meat of me. I think the meat of us should stay on the inside of the body, not outside, unless it’s needed for grander purposes, such as lunch for your former seatmates in the Andes on a snowy day. I know that when your insides are on the outside, it stings.
I opt not to get one or two or five jillion stitches in my finger. Instead, I live officially cloven. I try to keep the two sides clean and pressed together with Band-aids. I expect regeneration and nothing less.
My Band-aid is not on when the larger piece of finger hanging off of me snags on an afghan. Pain rips through my heart before exploding down my limbs and out my fingers and toes. I have just finished Elie Weisel's Night and am deep into a slave-era narrative for my school’s book club, but still, I think that my pain must be greater.